When she found out I was going to Chicago my esteemed colleague Sharon Kudlowitz informed me, “You have to try the deep-dish pizza at Lou Malnati’s.” In fact, in a recent blog she rhapsodized so enthusiastically about the glories of Lou’s deep-dish pie that while reading it my mouth started watering. But while Lou’s sounded fantastic, I also wanted to claim my own discovery.

A quick bit of research revealed that three chains all vie for the hotly contested title of “Chicago’s best pizza”: Lou Malnati’s, Giordano’s and Gino’s East of Chicago. Each has its admirers and, no doubt, equally vociferous detractors. And all three have downtown Chicago locations, so I had my pick of the crop. After a morning and early afternoon spent at the outstanding Art Institute of Chicago I left with a hunger not for more paintings, but for pizza. I decided to walk from the museum to the original Gino’s location in the Near North Side neighborhood, six blocks north of the Chicago River.

There was a strategy behind my timing; it was around two o’clock when I set out, which falls within that restaurant limbo period when the lunch rush is over but the dinner hour has yet to begin. I had no trouble finding it thanks to the giant slices of pepperoni pizza that look like they’re holding up the building.

My instincts were correct; there were hardly any customers when I walked in. I sat at a table in the bar, which was non-smoking and empty except for one other guy watching TV. Gino’s is cavernous, dark and graffiti-strewn; the walls are plastered with beer signs and beer pennants, the wooden chairs are high-backed and flimsy, and the tables are covered with classic red-checked vinyl tablecloths. The paper placemat also serves as a menu. I gave it a cursory glance and noted the usual suspects—thin crust pizzas, calzones, Stromboli, pasta dishes, subs, appetizers of the fried variety—but I already knew what I wanted.

“The deep dish is good, right?” I asked my short, plump, bespectacled, exceedingly cheerful waitress. “Deep dish—that’s probably why you’re here. It’s why we’re here,” she answered. She explained that every pizza was made from scratch, that the deep-dish pizzas had a signature cornmeal crust, that I could go half-and-half if I wanted and that it would take 45 minutes. “Do you have the time?”

“I have the time.”
“Awesome!” (As it turned out, that was her favorite word.)

My waitress explained that instead of bits of sausage Gino’s used a sausage patty (“more bang for your buck”). She also said that if I ordered a medium I would definitely be taking some home, and if I ordered a small I would probably be taking some home. I decided on a small half veggie, half sausage and didn’t bother with a salad or an appetizer; I was after the full pizza immersion experience. “Awesome!” she said as she left to get my Coke.

I settled in for the wait. First I studied the likenesses of the Blues Brothers ensconced behind the bar. I jotted down a few notes. I nursed my Coke. I perused the wall next to my table, which boasted a framed photo of a pre-scandal Tiger Woods serving up a slice and a Stella Artois poster (beer of the month) scrawled with the signatures of previous diners at my table. I waited some more. I mentally planned my next day’s schedule. I cracked my knuckles. In my head I sang all 4 minutes and 40 seconds of “Jet Boy” by the New York Dolls while growing progressively hungrier. I reviewed the 2010 White Sox schedule on the wall next to the Stella Artois poster. My stomach let out an audible growl. I tried and failed to be entertained by “NFL Live” on ESPN, sponsored by Pizza Hut (which somehow seemed sacrilegious when you’re sitting in a shrine devoted to authentic deep dish). I folded, unfolded and refolded my drinking straw paper wrapper.

I had run out of diversions when my pizza finally arrived, hot and bubbling in a cast-iron pan. The waitress cut a slice, put it on the plate and inquired, “Looks good?”

“Oh yeah.”
“Awesome!”

I ate the four slices in this order: sausage, veggie, veggie, sausage. The outer cornmeal crust was unusual but delicious. The sauce had a hint of sweetness and definitely tasted homemade. The cheese was hot and stringy and properly melted, and there was plenty of it without being overwhelming. My verdict: awesome. And yes, I finished it off, except for one piece of crust.

Quibbles? Well, the advertised asparagus was missing from the veggie half, and the sausage tasted a little salty. But I waddled out of Gino’s 90 minutes after I had bounced in, blinking in the bright sunshine, completely full but utterly satisfied. And I didn’t eat again until the next morning. It’s an indulgence I won’t be repeating any time soon—but what an indulgence.